Freeze-Frame at Blogwarts

Good God!

Professor Dimbledore glanced up from checking his hair in his pocket mirror, before putting the final question to the three Head Boy candidates. Only a brief second ago, the boy Brown had been sadly shaking his head for the hundredth time as the other two made their points. This was the School Bully’s way of trying to influence the Blogwarts Board of Governors. Worse than that, he had followed up with the dreaded Smile.

But now, a mere split second later, all three seemed frozen in mid-posture. Indeed, looking around him, Dimbledore saw that everyone — the Board, the school janitor Bercow, the senior prefects — all were standing as still as waxworks, though some had become more lifelike.

All was silent, save fore a distant shouting and banging. But that was from beyond the school boundaries, where wee Alex Salmand was still battering at the gates, demanding entrance. Within the Great Hall of Blogwarts, however, the only sound was his own breathing.

Someone had frozen Time itself!

No sooner had the thought struck him than he flew to his study, neglecting his broom-stick in his hurry, and leaving a Dimbledore-shaped hole in the roofing tiles. As usual, the place was an untidy mess, and everything was knee-deep in Phoenix-shit. He sped to his roll-top desk, brushed aside some ancient spells and a doctors prescription for a condition he didn’t want to discuss, and then stood in consternation.

The fabled Thingey of Astrakhan was missing, gone, purloined, stolen (enough words meaning missing!  – Ed.) The Thingey was an Ancient Artifact, a wondrous… er … wonder, with the magic word “Remote” inscribed on it. The Thingey held a myriad of buttons, each with a tiny heiroglyphic which nobody had ever understood. Old legends spoke of the Thingey being able to freeze Time itself, for one who knew its secrets.

Dimbledore made his way to the Press Room. Possibly the cameras could show him what had happened in that brief moment he had glanced away. And how had he alone been spared? Opening the door, he found the room poised like statues in a moment of action, hands gesturing, mouths smiling, speaking, and glowering.

And yet, not all was frozen. Over in the far corner, he saw a quick flash of movement. Quickly, he hid himself behind the south face of a motionless Eric Pickles, and peered cautiously around. All the reporters and TV people were standing motionless,except for a small group on the outskirts. He edged forwards and –

And there they were — the Embroidery Circle from Hell.

There was the toad-like figure of Whelan, rubbery lips revealing a crocodile grin, shaven head always promising to suddenly jut forward in a Glasgow kiss. There was Liam Byrne, the light bouncing off his head, standing on tip-toe to achieve height-parity with the others. Behind them, the overly aggressive shape of Campbell, and the worried looking, rat-like Kevin Maguire, once a journalist, now reduced to working for the Daily Mirror.

All of them were gathered round — what? A shape of some kind, slowly swirling and revolving and coalescing in the air before them. It was hard to describe this shape, other than saying that it was shape-shaped. But as the seconds passed slowly, Dimbledore saw that it was Mandelson, the school sneak and fag to the Bully Brown.

But this was a changed Mandelson, no longer servile and cringing, but now with Gestapo-style glasses gleamily evilly in the half-lit Underworld of the Press Room, his weasel-like features taut and grey with anger, having been disturbed in the midst of applying yet more Naturtint for Men (copyright).

This was no mere Mandelson, Dimbledore realised. This was yet another manifestation of the evil Lord Mandelvort. Who held in one hand the missing Thingey of Astrakhan. And these others — they could only be minor demons under Mandelvort’s control.

“We can’t hold them like this forever,” the Dark Lord was saying. “The batteries will run out. We have to find a way to spin this that the ugly bastard won the debate.”

Suddenly there was a loud bang and a cloud of green smoke. Everyone glared at Whelan, who had farted again.

Liam Byrne held his hand up. “Can’t we just say they’re all bigots?”

They ignored him.

Maguire was next to offer a suggestion, but none of the others could actually penetrate his broken English.

Mandelvort held up a manicured hand for silence. The lights reflected dully from his £23,000 watch. “I say,” he commanded, “That we tell everyone that our man won the day. He barnstormed it. He was a tower of strength. He was a man in the presence of boys, the only possible choice to lead the country. A giant among pygmies. A Colossus of substance. The Master of All He Surveyed.“

There was a silence as the others stood awed in the presence of such evil super-spin.

Then Byrne said timidly: “But — the polls –”

Mandelvort gave him a glare that melted the Treasury Secretary’s eyebrows. “The polls can be dismissed. Who cares about them? Who pays attention to them?”

“We do.” said Campbell.

“Only when it suits our purposes.” Mandelvort’s gaze suddenly narrowed to the giant inflatable of Eric Pickles. Dimbledore had shifted to ease his aching muscles, and now, quick as a flash, the Lord of Lies had minced forward with the Thingey in his outstretched hand.

“Well, well, well” he crowed as the others turned to face the professor. “The Great Professor Dimbledore has somehow survived. But not for long, I think.”

He extended his arm and pressed a button. Suddenly –  nothing happened. Dimbledore tensed. Had the batteries given out at last? But then a light glowed faintly on the Thingey. With a sudden insight, the Professor dug desperately into his pocket as Mandelvort pressed the button again, then held aloft his pocket mirror.

A thin streak of intense blue light shot from the Thingey, bounced off the mirror, and around the angles of the room, in a shot Steve Davis would have applauded.  It ended by enveloping the five spin-demons in a blaze of blue fire.

Whelan gave a wail as he began to dissolve into his constituent parts of piss and wind. Campbell buckled as all the hot air in his body leaked out, and he crumbled to the floor, just an empty bag from which a thin trickle of green slime ran out. Little Liam Byrne just faded out of existance, his shining head being the last part of him to disappear. There was worse for Kevin Maguire, who slowly crumbled away, piece by piece, until only a mobile phone and a small piece of brain were left, though this was sufficient to continue as the Daily Mirror’s political editor.

As for Mandelvort himself, the Prince of Darkness’s face writhed and contorted as it was consumed by flames. Every lie he had ever told came back as a red-hot needle. His body was pierced by a thousand pricks. Smoke poured from his every orifice, and a fine layer of volcanic ash rose to a height of twenty thousand feet.

There was a fraught final second while Mandelvort’s demonic glasses remained to glare at Dimbledore. And then — with a pouff! — he was gone, leaving only a trace of green smoke and hair-dye. The Thingey of Astrakhan itself fell to the floor, safe once more.

Dimbledore’s hand fell limply to his side. It was over. He surveyed the scene in Spin Alley, the reporters, the assistants, the politicans… all of them frozen as they had been when Lord Mandelvort had used the Thingey to stop Time itself, some of them with their mouths closed.

Things were no different when he re-entered the Great Hall. The Board of Governors sat without fidgeting in their seats. Cameron stood at his podium, one finger aloft, as he delivered a platitude. Clegg, at his side, in mid-scoff, a know-all sneer upon his lips. And then there was Bully Brown, smiling a smile to frighten Daleks with. All in absolute silence…

Dimbledore raised the Thingey. One press of a button would restore this static scene to what passed for life here at Blogwarts. One tiny movement of his finger would bring back the angry words, the denials, the statistics, the rebuttals, the endless, endless, endless interviews and replays. His finger trembled on the brink of movement…

But then the thought struck him that it had been years since he had known such peace, such calm, such serenity. And he was fed up with everyone else being the hero. Why shouldn’t he be the hero, he thought, just for once in a while?

Dimbledore whispered a spell and snapped his fingers. Damn… more broken bones for Matron Harriet to bandage. But then his glass of red wine appeared floating in the air before him, and Schumann’s “Traumerie” began to play softly in the background.

Dimbledore leaned back on the sun lounger which had suddenly appeared under him, and took a long, satisfying, forbidden drag from the cigarette between his lips.

He would awaken everyone next Thursday, after a week off from the eternal politics of the Head Boy contest. They could vote then. There was no hurry, he thought drowsily. Sip of wine… drag on the cigarette… dreaming of Matron Harriet and her soothing touch… All terribly bad for him, no doubt, but still… Yes, yes… next week would do.

Sod ‘em. Sod the lot of ‘em.

©Lenko